Amygdala
by MissScarletInTheLibrary
Summary: Amygdala. The part of the brain that deals in extremes - anger, arousal, fear, pleasure, survival. First attempt at Ambrollins. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My first attempt at Ambrollins. This story has a strange name, but I think it's appropriate. Here comes the scientific part:**

**Amygdala ****[**_**uh**_**-****mig****-d**_**uh**_**-l**_**uh**_**]**

**The amygdala is an almond shaped mass of nuclei located deep within the ****temporal lobe of the brain.**** It is involved in many of our emotions and motivations, particularly those that are related to survival. The amygdala is also involved in the processing of emotions such as fear, anger and pleasure. It deals with arousal, responses associated with fear, emotion, hormonal secretions and memory.**

**Please review and let me know if I should continue with this. Enjoy!**

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><p>Dean pulled his leather jacket closer to his body in an attempt to fight off the evening chill. The wind had picked up noticeably, whipping stray leaves about him as he strolled along. He glanced up at the town clock, its face glowing in the darkness, when it announced 11pm with a deep, ominous gong that reverberated through the quiet night.<p>

The streets were empty. All of the sensible people were tucked away in their warm homes, either watching the news or snugly bedded down for the night. He briefly wished for the same thing, to rest his head on a comfortable pillow, or feel an arm wrapped around him, but he quickly pushed the thought away. Why dwell on the things that he couldn't have? It would only make him miserable.

He buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to keep the blood flowing. He'd always had terrible circulation, and walking outside on an autumnal night really wasn't helping any. He figured he had another hour before he could head back to his place and attempt to sleep. His roommates should have settled into a whiskey-soaked stupor by then.

It had become a nightly ritual, walking the streets until he could be assured of peace and slip back into the house for a few hours rest. Snow Oaks was an innocuous little town, quirky in some respects, but very much a protective community. Protective of their own, that is. Dean was a loner, a drifter, moving from one place to the next without putting down roots, and never looking back when his time there drew to an end.

But here…this place felt different. Sure, he was still on the periphery of Snow Oaks' society, but his existence wasn't entirely unpleasant. He liked the size - it wasn't teeming with people. It was secure - he could walk the streets undisturbed without having to worry for his safety. For the most part, people left him to his own devices. He appreciated that.

He approached the old Town Hall, a sturdy brick building that housed Snow Oaks' local government offices. He ran his finger over the smooth golden plaque that adorned the entrance wall: 'Snow Oaks, Established 1723'.

He smiled to himself, thinking about the name. It hadn't snowed in Snow Oaks since 1963. Well, that's what the local newspapers said. He had spent hours poring over reams of microfiche at the library when he first rolled into town. He liked to get properly acquainted with a place when he arrived, to immerse himself in its origins and history, to really get a feel for the locality.

Who would have guessed that he was a bit of a history buff? Certainly not his high school teachers, who wrote him off as a crack baby, a ticking time-bomb destined to follow in his fucked-up parent's footsteps. He hadn't been a crack baby, his Mom had somehow managed to abstain for nine months, but that didn't matter to them. Appearances mattered. And appearances indicated that he would end up as they did, consumed by addiction and controlled by his demons.

He shook his head to clear his melancholic thoughts, turned away from the plaque and resumed his ambling.

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><p>By 12.30am, Dean was more than ready to head back to the house. The street he lived on was on the west side of town, just beyond the reach of the affluent suburbs. Trees of every variety brooded morosely over the sidewalks, attempting to escape their properties, reflective of the mood of every single inhabitant. It wasn't a great spot, but it was all he could afford right now. Besides, it wasn't like he was unfamiliar with the underbelly of a nice town.<p>

He kicked at a squashed Coke can that lay in his path, tapping it along the ground until he neared his house. He was almost at the gate when he heard a faint voice call his name. Dean managed to suppress a groan before turning around to face the person.

An elderly woman stood in front of him, her white wispy hair flying around her head like some strange halo in the night air. She clutched a ratty floral bathrobe to her thin frame, her milky blue eyes wide and almost unseeing. Dean knew better. Mystic Maggie, as she was known in the neighbourhood, saw _everything_.

"Dean," she repeated, a pale bony hand extending to grab at the lapel of his jacket. "Watch your money. You must be careful with your money."

He patted her hand awkwardly, surprised by how warm she was. "I am, Maggie," he assured her. "I take good care of it, and I save."

She shook her heard, not satisfied with his response. "No, Dean. You need to be extra vigilant. I know you're not earning a lot, so you must be careful with the money that you do have. There are thieves everywhere. How is your employment situation?"

He didn't want to discuss his personal finances…or lack thereof...on the sidewalk after midnight. But she was harmless enough. Dean placed a hand on her shoulder and began to steer her toward her property next door. "Let's get you inside, Maggie. It's too cold for you to be out here. I'm being good with my money, I promise. Work comes in dribs and drabs, but you know me, I'll do whatever it takes to keep my head above water."

She nodded, "Good, good. That construction work won't last long. I know of someone who could help you. He lives at 613 Hawthorne Avenue. He accepts visitors on Friday evenings from 9pm onwards. Go there tomorrow, Dean. You'll need him."

Dean offered his elbow as they ascended her porch steps, waiting until she unlocked the door and stepped inside. "You take care of yourself, Maggie."

"Don't forget what I said, Dean," she replied, pointing a finger at him, her face solemn. "613 Hawthorne Avenue. He has what you need."

Dean nodded and stuffed his hands into his pockets, unsure of how to respond to that. "Uh, thanks Maggie. Goodnight."

Despite feeling exhausted just a few minutes ago, Dean now doubted that he would get any sleep that night.

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><p>The spray of hot water on his body felt fucking incredible. It was a luxury tonight. His roommates had decided to search for the answers to their problems at the bottom of a bottle and fucked off to a local dive bar. All of the hot water in the house was his. And he deserved it.<p>

Dean had been right. He hadn't been able to sleep much after his encounter with Maggie. She had been so serious, so sure that he should keep a watchful eye on his money. That he would somehow end up at 613 Hawthorne Avenue. The address had been etched in his memory with indelible ink.

Dean had heard mumbled stories about Maggie. That she was a lonely old widow who just wanted company. That she had taken a lot of shit back in the sixties and it had messed up her mind permanently. That she was a goddamned psychic. That she preyed upon the sympathy of young dudes in an attempt to hop on their dicks.

To him, she was harmless. A little kicked in the head, sure, but who wasn't?

Even bearing that in mind, her words had niggled at him all night and kept him from the sleep that he needed. He dragged his ass out of bed at 6:30 that morning and spent the next twelve hours lifting heavy shit and keeping his mouth shut on the construction site. The job security was tenuous at best, but it covered this month's rent. He preferred to keep his head down and get the work done, not bitch and whine like the other guys.

He had stashed his wages, paid in cash, in his usual hiding spot – his pillowcase – before stepping under the spray of water that was currently gliding down his body, little droplets catching in the ridges of muscle that years of heavy labour had afforded him.

He grabbed the bar of soap and lathered up his body, massaging his aching muscles as he went. He'd always liked shower time, ever since he was a kid. He could detach himself from the world for a little while and dream up stories that made him happy. Call it childish, but it got him through his day.

Tonight, he was wistful for a place of his own. Nothing fancy, just somewhere safe and warm and _quiet._ His mind was so busy, he needed a space of his own to decompress. The current gang of animals that he lived with ensured that he didn't get much peace.

"Ambrose! Get out here now!"

Dean's head snapped toward the door, where an obviously heavy fist was thumping on the thin wood.

"Who's there?" He called out, shutting the water off and hurriedly wrapping a towel around his hips.

"It's Santa Claus. Who do you think it is? Now get out here and pay your rent."

Dean's eyes narrowed. His asshole landlord had a habit of showing up and demanding payment whenever it suited him. He provided shitty accommodation and facilities, but expected his tenants to be grateful for the privilege.

Dean pulled open the door, finding the red-faced troll waiting for him with a sly smile. He stretched out an open palm, "Pay up Ambrose, or you're out."

Dean ran a hand through his wet hair and took a deep breath, "Rent's not due until tomorrow, Heyman. You can't keep changing the rules like this."

"Oh, Mr. Ambrose, I think you'll find that I can," Heyman said smugly. "Who else is going to provide lodgings for the poor unfortunates of Snow Oaks? And at such a reasonable price, too? Now hand it over."

He had Dean there. He couldn't exactly be choosy right now.

"Fine," Dean sighed, pushing into his room and emptying out the pillowcase. He felt around on the sheet, finding nothing. Weird. He flicked on his lamp and saw that the bedspread was devoid of cash. He rubbed at his eyes, thinking that his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him. Where the fuck was the money? He had put it there less than an hour ago.

"I'm waiting," Heyman taunted from the doorway, clasping his hands in front of his protruding belly.

"I seem to have…misplaced my rent," Dean stated evenly, his brain grasping for an answer.

"You're out," Heyman retorted, now examining his cuticles. "I want you gone by midnight."

"No, no, wait! I know I haven't been here all that long, but I've never been late with rent. I'm reliable. Those other animals that you put me with? They're probably responsible for this."

Heyman pondered that statement for a moment, making a movement of agreement with his mouth.

"I'll have it by noon tomorrow. Just give me a chance. Please."

Heyman's beady eyes sized him up carefully, his lips pursed. "Alright. I'll be back at noon. You better have it by then…plus the ten percent inconvenience charge for putting me through this extra fuss."

Dean bit the inside of his cheek, nodding stiffly instead of grabbing the landlord by the throat like he wanted to. Heyman offered an over the top cursty before taking his leave.

Dean sank down on to the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands. How the fuck was he going to pony up that kind of money by tomorrow? His roommates had to have nabbed his cash the second he stepped into the shower. And to think he had been happy that they were off to drink their non-existent woes away. All of their problems were self-made, they were just too dumb to solve them.

He spent a good half hour going over the problem in his head. He was fucked. Maggie had been right – thieves were everywhere. For whatever reason, he had never expected his roommates to steal from him, even though he probably should have.

The distant sound of the town clock brought him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 10pm.

_613 Hawthorne Avenue._

The thought crept into his mind as if someone had just whispered it to him. He was desperate enough. It was his only option. What had Maggie said? That the guy accepted visitors from 9pm on Fridays. With luck, he'd let Dean in at this hour.

After quickly throwing on his uniform of jeans, a t-shirt and his old leather jacket, he took to the streets with renewed purpose, trying to track his mental map of the town. He took a few wrong turns, meaning that it was closer to eleven by the time he rocked up in front of a large three storey Victorian on the fancy side of town.

He threw a look over his shoulder, suddenly feeling uneasy. Dean didn't do well when surrounded by the trappings of wealth. He was completely out of his comfort zone in a place like this. But fuck it, he had to suck it up and deal with it if he wanted to still have a place to stay by morning.

He pressed the ornate doorbell and ran a hand through his damp hair. Wiping his palms on his thighs, he tried to keep his cool when the door suddenly shifted open. A woman with long dark hair, glossy red lips and doe eyes greeted him. She was dressed to kill in a short black dress that clung to her body, revealing her more than ample cleavage. "Can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm here about the job opening?" Maggie had been scant on the details, but he figured there would be plenty of odd jobs to do in an old house like this. Dean was good with his hands. He could handle pretty much anything that was thrown his way.

The woman ran her eyes up and down the length of his body, openly scrutinising him. Glancing back up at him, she smiled and gestured him inside. "Of course, come on in."

Dean nodded and stepped over the threshold, his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. This place was fancy as fuck. Well polished dark wood everywhere, real expensive looking antiques - everything about it _screamed_ money.

"Oh, he is gonna _love_ you," the woman murmured behind him.

"What was that?" he asked, turning around, confused by the smile on her face.

"I said follow me right this way. Mr. Rollins is receiving guests in his study tonight. There are a couple guys in front of you. I'm Nikki, by the way."

"No problem, I can wait. Uh, I'm Dean."

Nikki led him to a long hallway that was lit by old-fashioned candelabras affixed to the walls. He took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs, furtively looking around at the other men who were waiting. They were all dressed in suits, some shabby, others more stylish. Fuck. Maybe he should have dressed up for this. Even though it was unorthodox, it _was_ still a job interview. He tugged on the sleeves of his jacket, as if the scars in the leather would suddenly disappear.

"Can I get you a drink, Dean?"

"Uh, some water would be great."

He gratefully accepted the bottle of water. The deep gulps he took were satisfying and helped ease his nerves. He was surprised that he felt nervous. He was generally a laidback guy, not someone who carried worry. His life would have been unbearable if he spent his days brooding over every little thing that could potentially go wrong. He didn't have any structure or support networks, a lot could go wrong, but he always dealt with each new crisis as it cropped up. Otherwise, he'd have descended into insanity a long time ago.

His head snapped up at the sound of a door opening. A guy who looked to be a little older than him emerged, disappointment evident on his face. He moped back down the hallway, his shoulders dropping with every step. This Rollins guy must be super fucking picky.

The other men filtered into the study one by one, some reappearing less than a minute later, others taking several minutes before they walked out dejectedly. The grandfather clock struck midnight as the last man left the house.

"Mr. Rollins will see you now, Dean," Nikki said, nodding in the direction of the study. "You'll be fine."

He stood up and rubbed his sweat-slicked palms on his jeans, pausing at her reassuring words. He gave her a shaky nod and walked stiffly through the open door. The only light source in the room came from the large fireplace to his left. He blinked a few times, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness.

Bookshelves lined the wall to his right from ceiling to floor, and were crammed to capacity. A big mahogany desk was set out directly in front of him, the chair turned to face the opposite direction. He could just make out the top of a head over the back of it.

Dean stood in silence for a few moments, the sparks from the fire the only sound in the room. Thinking that Rollins didn't know that he was there, he cleared his throat and spoke at last.

"Hi, I'm Dean Ambrose."

The head moved ever so slightly, before the chair slowly swivelled around to face him.

Dean's breath caught in his throat when he saw the man sitting in it. He was…beautiful. He was born for opulence, and wore wealth well. He had thick hair, dark except for a startling patch of blond that framed his gorgeous face. His skin was smooth and tanned, stretching over a lean yet muscular frame. He wore black dress pants and a black shirt that was rolled up to his forearms.

But it was the eyes.

It was the big, soulful brown eyes that kept Dean's feet rooted to that spot, unable to move.

"Hello, Dean Ambrose," the man said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, his gaze travelling over Dean's body in much the same way that Nikki's had. "What brings you here tonight?"

The bite of his nails digging into the heel of his hand snapped Dean back to attention. "I'm here about the job. I was told that you would…have a job for me."

The man arched an eyebrow, a smirk flirting with his lips. "What else were you told about this job, Dean?"

"Uh, not much," Dean admitted, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up the back of his neck. "My neighbour said that you would…have what I needed?"

"And what is it that you need?" The man leaned forward, seemingly interested in hearing his response.

Dean considered his answer for a moment, deciding to be blunt. Time wasn't a luxury that he could afford right now.

"Money."

The man's eyes flicked down for a moment, concealing his reaction.

"I mean, I want to work for it. I don't just expect you to hand it over to me for nothing. I, uh, don't mind physical work. Or any kind of work, really. Like, I didn't get my high school diploma, but I have a lot of experience and um, I'm a hard worker and…"

"I'm sorry, Dean. I don't think I'll be able to help you. Best of luck with your future endeavours. Nikki will see you out."

Dean tried in vain to not show his disappointment. His facial muscles twitched, the corners of his mouth determined to fall down. Why had he rambled? Why had he brought up money like that? This guy was obviously loaded. People probably showed up on his doorstep with tragic stories and demands every day of the week.

This was fucking humiliating. He had just screwed up his last chance to save his ass from eviction.

"S-sure. Thanks for your time," he mumbled, head bowed as he backed out of the room.

When the door had closed behind him, he reached up to slap himself in the face. "So fucking _stupid_."

"What are you doing out here?"

Dean looked up to find Nikki staring at him, her arms crossed under those very nice titties of hers.

"Interview's over," he shrugged, attempting nonchalance.

"No. You go right back in there and make him understand."

"He said he's not able to help me out, I can't force the man to hire me." Why wasn't she getting that?

She strode over to Dean and placed her hands on his shoulders, her expression resolute. He didn't like people touching him. He had to work to avoid flinching. "Dean, go in there and _fight_. I can tell that you're a fighter. Why is this any different? All of those guys before you tonight, they just gave up and left. He's looking for something different. Show him that you can do this. It'll be worth it."

"Okay." Dean surprised himself with his response.

Why was he listening to this strange chick? What did she know about him? Granted, she knew her boss. Maybe he should take her advice. It seemed sincere enough. He'd already humiliated himself once tonight, what could it hurt to try again? Either way, he'd be homeless in a few hours.

Deciding not to knock, he gripped the doorknob and pushed his way back into the room. Rollins was standing at the fireplace, staring into the flames. He seemed taken aback by the intrusion, glancing over his shoulder, his mouth open in a perfect little O.

"Did you forget something, Dean?"

"Yeah, I did." Dean's voice was stronger, more self-assured this time. "I want this job. I know I can do it, whatever it is. I'm trustworthy, I'm discreet and I don't mind working late. I saw the other guys you interviewed tonight. They showed up in their flashy suits, ready to feed you lines of practiced bullshit. I'm being real with you here. I'm what you want."

That had felt good. He was telling the truth. Sure, he was a little rough around the edges, but he was a good guy. One of the few good guys in his world.

Rollins watched him intently, apparently mulling it over. He slowly approached Dean, his gait reminiscent of a hunter approaching its prey. Leisurely. Almost menacing.

"Do you even know what I want?" Rollins asked softly, continuing to advance upon him.

Dean instinctively took a step backwards, followed by several more until he was pressed up against the wall. Rollins was so close to him. Uncomfortably close. Dean bit down on the panic that rose up in his throat. No. This was a test. This guy was trying to scare him away. It wouldn't work. Not when he needed this job so badly.

"I don't know the specifics, but I know that I'm the right man for the job." Dean's heart-rate had kicked up, his mind battling his body, screaming at him to get the hell out of there.

Rollins' gaze slipped down to his throat, as if he could sense the conflict. "I think you should be made aware of the specifics before you agree to anything. Do you want to know what I need, Dean? What I _want_?"

Dean swallowed with effort, nodding, "Yeah. I do."

Rollins placed his hands on either side of Dean's head, tilting his own at an angle, as if he were about to kiss Dean. Their warm breath mingled together, their chests almost touching.

"I want your blood."

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><p><strong>AN: Dun dun dunnnnn. Want to read more? Let me know!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow. I was blown away by the reaction to Chapter 1. Thank you so, so much for reading and reviewing. Your words were so encouraging and inspired me to keep going with this story. I told a few of you that I'm flying by the seat of my pants, but that'll keep things fun. Your enthusiasm for this story made me want to update relatively quickly too. I hope you like it.**

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><p>Dean didn't say anything right away. He was pinned up against the wall, blue eyes wide, his mind attempting to process Rollins' statement.<p>

_He wants my blood. _

"…You want my blood."

Rollins nodded, still just a breath away from Dean.

Dean blinked slowly, looking beyond the man in front of him. "You want my _blood_."

"Yes."

Maggie had obviously forgotten to mention that minor detail.

"Are you a doctor?"

"I qualified in medicine, yes."

"So…you want it for an experiment or somethin'?"

Rollins' mouth lifted up slightly, as if he were enjoying a secret joke. "Or something."

"Can I, uh, can I get a little space here?" Dean asked, his clothing suddenly feeling too tight, his throat on the verge of closing up from the other man's proximity. The bombshell he had just dropped wasn't helping anything either.

Rollins moved away without argument, retreating to the fireplace, casually resting a hand on top of it as he resumed his flame watching.

Dean blew out a harsh breath, his fingers creeping inside his jacket to tap out an erratic rhythm on his collarbone. His head was lowered, his bottom lip thrust out as he thought.

Okay. This rich dude wanted his blood. An odd request, but not the weirdest thing he'd ever heard. Dean's life had been filled with unpredictability and more than a few…questionable characters. This Rollins guy was just the latest to appear, apparently.

"How much blood do you want?" The question escaped his lips without him even realising it.

Rollins glanced up in surprise. He obviously hadn't been expecting follow up questions either.

"A pint. I sanitise the skin and use hypodermic needles to extract the blood. It's all very hygienic. Takes about ten minutes. Afterward, you would rest for a few minutes and take in some sugar to avoid light-headedness or fainting. Then Nikki would drive you home, to ensure that you made it there safely."

Dean was struck by his businesslike manner. He was discussing taking a body-product as if he were talking about his grocery list. This obviously wasn't his first time at the rodeo.

"So…if I give you my blood…what do I get in return?" It was so difficult to know what to ask, how to approach this novel situation. Rollins hadn't reacted all that well to money being mentioned earlier, but that's what Dean needed. Just like Rollins needed blood. For…reasons.

Rollins was staring at him again, his brown eyes softer now. "What do you want?"

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, "Uh, money. Like I said."

Rollins nodded, walked over to his bureau and opened a drawer. He pulled out a cheque-book and picked up a golden pen. He flipped open a new page, the nib poised above the paper.

"Who do I make it out to?"

"Um, Paul Heyman."

Rollins' hand went to write, but stilled for a moment when he heard that name. He looked up at Dean curiously, before deciding against saying anything about it. "And how much?"

Dean nibbled on this thumbnail, a bad habit that flared up whenever he was uncomfortable. He felt guilty for taking this guy's money. Yeah, it was a case of exchanging…services? But it still felt as if he were robbing Rollins in some way.

"Y'know what? Forget the cheque. I'll just take cash." There. That felt a little better. He was used to being paid cash in hand. He didn't really _do_ banking. It's not like he had a great credit history or any reason to think about saving for the future…

"Cash it is," Rollins agreed, pulling a wad of notes from his pocket. "How much…?"

"Like, what's the usual rate for these things? I've never done this before…"

Rollins smiled briefly. He appreciated Dean's honesty. "You're giving me something very valuable, and I believe in rewarding that generosity. Tell me how much you want, and it's yours."

Dean eyed the other man warily. This seemed _way_ too good to be true. Heyman would be expecting three hundred dollars in the morning, plus that stupid ten percent he mentioned…so three thirty. And Dean would need to eat for the next week…maybe another twenty? He felt bad for adding on that little extra, but if it was too much, Rollins could say so.

"Three fifty."

Rollins watched him carefully, "That's all? You're sure you don't need more?"

"Yep."

The other man still wasn't moving, his eyes examining Dean carefully, apparently trying to figure something out. After a minute, he counted out the required amount aloud and placed it in an envelope.

"It's all there. I'll hand it over before you leave," Rollins stated, all business once more.

"Okay," Dean agreed, suddenly feeling anxious again. Was he really doing this? Was he really about to let a stranger stick him with a needle and take his blood? If he had any other option available to him, he probably wouldn't agree to this. If it were any other person, he definitely wouldn't agree to this.

As strange as this night was turning out to be, he felt oddly comforted by Rollins' presence. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who would intentionally hurt someone or take them for a ride.

Rollins indicated for Dean to take a seat in front of the fire. Dean reluctantly slipped out of his leather jacket before easing into the plush chair. He shivered a little, feeling cold despite the warmth from the hearth. His fingers resumed their tapping on his thigh.

"Uh, I know it's not really my business but…you're not gonna use this for shady purposes, right?"

"That depends on your definition of shady, I suppose," Rollins mused, unwrapping a cloth pouch to reveal several needles, glass vials and what looked to be hospital supply bags.

"You're not gonna use it to make a clone of me, are you?" Dean asked warily, eyeing up the tools.

Rollins chuckled, unable to conceal his smile. "No, Dean. I'm not going to clone you. You're too unique for that."

Dean's eyebrows rose in surprise, but he kept his mouth shut. Unique? Him? Hardly. He was just a regular guy trying to survive. That was all.

Rollins took hold of Dean's elbow and used an antibacterial wipe to sanitise the skin covering the thick vein that protruded there. He unwrapped a fresh syringe and prepared the supply bag. He was so meticulous in his methods, taking his time with everything, but working with self-assurance.

"How are you with needles?"

"Uh, fine."

Dean pushed away the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. Now was not the time to recall seeing his mother shooting up in the living room, or the kitchen, or out on the sidewalk. He definitely shouldn't be thinking about carefully stepping over the piles of discarded syringes that lay scattered on the pavement as he made his way to and from school. Rollins didn't give a shit about his past, he only wanted one thing and would then send Dean on his way. Dean had no intention of fucking up his only opportunity to get the cash he needed so desperately.

Once again, Rollins paused, rubbing at his beard while he watched Dean's face. Dean stared right back, unblinking, determined to not let anything show.

"…Good. You'll feel a light pinch, but nothing too bad. It shouldn't take too long. If you feel uncomfortable or are in pain at any point, tell me and I'll stop."

Dean nodded, his thumb running back and forth over the worn thread on the knee of his jeans. He could do this. He _would_ do this. He just needed to focus on the thought of his bed and the groceries that he'd buy tomorrow afternoon. Sleep and food. Basic but important things.

"Speak your agreement," Rollins insisted, his tone firm.

Dean looked up, taking note of the other man's stern expression. "Yeah…yes. I understand."

Rollins' face smoothed out, seemingly content with his response. He pulled on a pair of black latex gloves and knelt down beside the chair, cupping Dean's elbow as he examined the vein. "I'll slide it in on the count of three…one, two, three…"

Dean remained silent as he watched the needle disappear under his skin. There. The hardest part was over. In a few minutes, he would have a pocket full of cash and be on his way back to the house. He'd sleep well tonight, knowing that he had avoided eviction.

Rather than stare at the bag while it filled up with his blood, he looked at Rollins' face as he concentrated on the procedure.

"You've got a really nice place here," Dean commented casually, trying to break up the silence. Truthfully, he wanted some more of Rollins' attention. He liked having those brown eyes on him.

Rollins didn't answer right away, but when he did look up, his eyes had glazed over somewhat. He blinked rapidly. "Thank you. It's been in the family for a few generations. I try to maintain it as best I can."

"You, uh, you okay? You look a little…dazed."

Rollins frowned and nodded briskly, turning his attention back to Dean's arm. "I'm fine."

The other man's body language told Dean that he should shut up, but he couldn't help himself. Once an awkward silence descended, he felt personally obligated to fill it.

"So…you're a doctor? What kinda medicine do you practice, Dr. Rollins?"

"Seth. You can call me Seth. I'm a surgeon, but I don't practice anymore."

Fuck. He was a surgeon? Could this guy be any more impressive? Dean was intensely curious about him. Why didn't he practice anymore? He looked awfully young to have qualified, let alone retired. It begged the question…

"Uh, how old are you, Seth?"

That familiar smile reappeared. "Older than you."

Dean blinked in surprise, "How old do you think I am?"

Seth scrutinised him for a moment before answering, "Twenty one."

"You're right. So…how old are you? You don't look old."

"Twenty four."

Dean was hoping that his persistent badgering would lead to a more substantial conversation, but no such luck. Seth continued to intently, and silently, drain the blood from his body.

"Who's your favourite author?"

Seth's hands shifted slightly at the question. He kept his eyes on Dean's vein, but was polite enough to answer. That was probably his good breeding at work.

"I don't have a favourite."

"All these books and you don't got a favourite?" Dean asked in disbelief, his eyes running across the shelves to his left.

"Well, do you, Dean?"

"I've got a few," Dean replied, a little smugly. "I like Steinbeck. And Agatha Christie."

Seth couldn't hold back his surprise, a fact that didn't escape Dean's attention.

"What? You think a guy like me doesn't read?"

Seth scrambled to recover from his slip up, "No, no! I didn't mean it like that. I just didn't expect you to enjoy authors from so long ago…"

"Yeah, yeah…" Dean mumbled, suddenly remembering the vast gap that existed between their worlds.

Seth was a gentleman, he came from money, and he was obviously highly educated. Dean was…well, he was seen by many as a scumbag, he definitely did _not_ come from money, and he had dropped out of high school before graduation.

Why would Seth want to talk to him? Or even give him a second glance? He was only tolerating him because he wanted Dean's blood. It's not like he had taken any real interest in him as a person…or as a man.

Dean had noticed how handsome Seth was, how refined he was….while Seth had noticed Dean's fucking _blood_. Not his appearance, or how desperate he was for his attention, but his blood. _That's_ how interested Seth was in him.

Dean tried to ignore the negative thoughts. The twinge of the needle under his skin reminded him of what he was doing. In a way, it was exactly what his parents had done. That thought niggled at him, it was an unsettling realisation. He had sworn that he wouldn't be like them. That he wouldn't make the same stupid mistakes.

Yeah, he was taking something from his body, rather than putting something unnatural into it, but he was still sitting here with a fucking needle in his arm. Like some sort of twisted junkie. He didn't even know what his blood would be used for. He was just as desperate as they were – he needed money, while they had needed to escape reality. The reasons were different, but the process was the same.

"Are you almost done?" He gritted out, his knuckles turning white from the death grip that he had on the armrest. He felt as if something was trying to claw its way out from under his skin. He had to get out of there, and soon.

"Just two more minutes," Seth answered, glancing up to see how agitated Dean was. "Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?"

Dean shook his head adamantly, his eyes cast downward.

"Dean. Tell me. Do you want me to stop this?"

"No," Dean whispered, still not looking at him.

Seth eyed the supply bag that was gradually filling up with blood. He was so close to the full pint, it would be a shame to stop now, but the man sitting in front of him was obviously uncomfortable. Desperate to see it through, Seth did the first thing that came into his head – he reached out a hand and stroked Dean's jawline gently, hoping that it would comfort him.

Dean instantly jerked back, his face remaining impassive. Seth frowned at the instinctive reaction. He withdrew his hand, realising why Dean may have flinched – he was still wearing the gloves. Could he have been any more careless? He had put Dean in an unusual, awkward situation. He could at least _try_ to make it feel less clinical.

Steadying the needle with one hand, he caught the wrist of his other glove between his teeth and tugged it off, dropping it on the rug. He eased his hand back up to Dean's face, resting his fingers lightly on his jaw, caressing the stubble there.

Seth watched Dean attentively, wondering if his reaction would be different this time.

It was.

Dean's eyes drifted closed as he leaned into the touch for a moment, his breathing becoming even again. Seth's pinkie slid down to Dean's throat, feeling his heartbeat slow down. He couldn't take his eyes off of him - the man who had been buzzing with frenetic energy since he first stepped into the room was suddenly calm and quiet. It was fascinating.

The tension fled from Dean's body as quickly as it had arrived. Seth's gentle stroking felt so damn good. It was a small act of comfort, a gesture intended to calm him down so that Seth could finish draining the pint of blood, but it was appreciated.

The shroud that had been cast over his brain by unwanted memories lifted a few seconds later. It was then that the intimacy of the moment hit him. How the continuous, gentle sweep of Seth's fingers over that small stretch of skin made him feel. Vulnerable. And that wasn't allowed to happen. Being vulnerable was _dangerous_. It could lead to bad places. People took advantage of vulnerability. Dean didn't have the luxury of opening himself up to others and risking vulnerability.

Dean cut his eyes down at the blood bag, seeing that it was almost full. He couldn't ignore Seth's insistent touches, couldn't put them to the back of his mind. They were _all_ he could think about. He just had to hold on a minute longer and then he could get the fuck out of there.

Back and forth. A warm, soft brush of fingers on his jawline. Dean ducked his head, feeling a lump beginning to swell in his throat.

No one ever touched him like this. He rarely let people get close enough to touch him, period. Although he knew that Seth was doing it as a means to an end, it felt so _nice_. Dean could fool himself into thinking that Seth cared about him for a few seconds. It would be incredible for someone like Seth to touch him and talk to him and _feel_ something for him.

But that was a pipedream. It was never going to happen.

That touch suddenly didn't feel all that comforting. It was just a reminder of everything that he'd never have.

The lump in his throat was rapidly growing bigger and bigger, making it difficult to swallow. His vision grew blurry. Were those fucking _tears_?

"A-are we done?" He stuttered, keeping his eyes on the floor. He couldn't let Seth see him like this.

"Thirty seconds."

"Can't it go any faster?"

Fuck. A single tear escaped and made its way down his cheek. Before he could reach up to swipe it away, it landed on Seth's forefinger.

Seth's hand stilled. He looked up in confusion, surprised by the sudden wetness on his finger.

"Dean?"

"I…I gotta go…I have to go," Dean mumbled, yanking the needle from his arm.

"What are you…no, Dean, wait!"

"I gotta go. I hope you got what you need. I'm sorry." Dean grabbed his jacket and ran from the room, leaving a bewildered Seth behind him.

"Shit," Seth hissed, grabbing the bag before the precious blood spilled from it.

"Dean!" Nikki's voice floated in from the hallway before she appeared at the door, confusion written on her face. "Seth. What happened?"

Seth smacked a fist down on the floor in frustration, clutching the bag to his chest with the other.

"…I wish I knew."

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><p><strong>AN: What do you think?**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews and positive feedback! I'd love to be able to respond to every review, but my life is getting busier and busier and I can barely get enough time together to write. Writer's block has been winning lately too! **

**But please do know that I appreciate your reviews and feedback! I've tried to respond to a few, but some people have their inboxes turned off, so I'll just say that everything happens for a reason in this story. (Usually.)**

**If you're feeling festive this Christmas Eve, maybe put off reading this chapter until Friday. It's not pretty. There will be angst.**

**Happy holidays everyone, and thanks for sticking with me!**

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><p>Dean stumbled down the pathway, desperate to get off of Seth's property. He clutched his arm, trying to stem the flow of blood that continued to seep out. The night air cut through him. His leather jacket was tucked under his elbow, but until the blood stopped, he couldn't put it back on.<p>

What the fuck had just happened? Twenty four hours ago, things had seemed easy. Well, relatively easy. He kept his head down, got his work done, maybe rewarded himself with a beer at the end of the working week.

But now? He didn't have any money. He may not have a home by that afternoon. And now he had this strange, appealing man in his head. The same man who now had a pint of his _blood_? The whole situation was too fucked up for words.

He kicked at a piles of leaves, trying to calm down. The wind sang in his ears as clouds sifted in front of the gleaming, round moon, concealing it for a few seconds before revealing its beauty again. He tracked it with his eyes, finding a modicum of comfort in it. The moon was constant, it was always there, even if you couldn't see it. Nothing in Dean's life was constant – tonight had been a prime example of that.

He cursed softly when he pulled his hand away, finding it covered in a slick layer of blood. He applied more pressure to the source, hoping that it would cease soon. Otherwise, he would be in even deeper shit.

Dean didn't want to address the feelings that had caused him to dart from Seth's house. He didn't want to acknowledge the events that had shaped him into the man he was – seemingly incapable of intimacy, and one who avoided feelings when he could. Despite the strange circumstances and request, he had felt comfortable with Seth and Nikki. They had been nice to him. Seth had been professional, maybe a little standoffish, but he had piqued Dean's curiosity like never before. It made him wonder about Seth - what it would be like to kiss him, or be held by him, or to sleep with him…

No. He had to shut that shit down before it got a chance to take hold. He deliberately ignored the hardening of his shaft in his pants.

Pipedream.

Not real.

Just a fantasy.

One that he could indulge in during his shower story time…if he still had a place to shower.

It was time to focus on the important stuff – like getting that cash. He'd tried to do things the right way, by earning it, and that hadn't worked out. Then he'd tried a more unorthodox route…blood donation…but that hadn't worked out either. Could he go back there in the morning and ask for the money? Maybe cut off the extra twenty because he'd left before Seth got the full pint? That was a possibility, but not one that he favoured very much.

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He was tired. So damn tired. He was constantly dealing with one crisis after another. Nothing ever came easy to him. He adapted to each new horror as it cropped up, and learned to expect the worst, because the best never seemed to materialise. He didn't dwell in self-pity, he just got on with things. But that didn't mean that he liked it, or that it wasn't exhausting. He always had to look out for himself, no one had ever offered to pick up the slack for him.

The boundary line between affluence and Dean's side of town wasn't subtle. One minute the pavement was smooth, the next it was pockmarked and uneven. Dean got it. He and Seth were different, an unequal pairing, oil and water. And that was okay. Life made those distinctions, for whatever reason.

He examined his arm, relieved that the bleeding had finally stopped. He shrugged his jacket on and held himself tightly as he walked. It could have been any other night spent walking the streets of Snow Oaks…except it wasn't. He had Seth in his head now. He had _notions_. Things that he didn't want in his head, dreams that he didn't dare elaborate upon.

A wave of exhaustion came over him as he stepped on to his street. The wind had picked up, angry armies of trees shaking violently overhead, railing against…something. Injustice? Their houseowners' lack of care? Being stripped of their leaves as they surrendered to the season?

Dean knew that he should be worried about the Heyman situation. It didn't look good. But if Heyman had a heart…and that was up for debate…surely he would see that Dean was a decent guy? A hard-working, blue-collar kid. He couldn't believe that the bastards he lived with had fleeced him. That was _wrong_. Despite everything that he had experienced in life, Dean still knew the difference between right and wrong.

Turning up at Seth's house tonight had been a new step for him. He didn't necessarily count it as _wrong_ because as Seth himself had said, Dean was giving him something valuable that he needed. Still, asking for help didn't come naturally to Dean. It made him uneasy. Ironically, that new venture had blown up in his face. It had all been for nothing.

He trudged up the pathway to the front door and let himself in quietly. The house was silent and dark. They were obviously still out drinking. Pouring _his _money down their throats.

He briefly thought about repaying the favour and taking something of _theirs_, but that wasn't really his style. Besides, karma wasn't too fond of him. She would only relish the opportunity to put him back in his place. He had to be smart about these things.

Dean dragged his body upstairs, washed away the blood, and stripped off his clothes before flopping down on his bed. The cool pillow felt so good against his flushed cheek. For someone who always felt cold, he was surprisingly warm at that moment.

He intended to formulate a plan to save his ass while he lay in bed. He did. He needed the mother of Hail Marys to get out of this one. He clung on to that thought even as sleep dragged him under…

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><p>"Seth?"<p>

Nikki stood in the doorway, her large brown eyes cautious.

Seth was still kneeling on the floor, holding the blood bag to his chest, staring at the abandoned needle.

"Seth? What do you need me to do?"

"I-I don't know," he replied quietly, still not moving.

"Is Dean okay? Do I need to go take care of anything?"

He shook his head, "No, you don't need to go take care of anything."

Nikki frowned at his avoidance of her first question. "And Dean?"

"I think he panicked," Seth said, his tone full of restraint. "We were almost finished, but he panicked. He took out the needle and left."

"Did he tell you what was wrong? I mean, to get so close and just…leave?"

"No, he didn't say anything other than that he was sorry and hoped I got what I needed." Seth shook his head, realising how pathetic he looked, nursing a blood bag on the floor. He stood up abruptly and carried the bag over to his bureau, opening a panel and placing it in a freezer compartment.

"I'm sorry, Seth," Nikki said softly as she moved closer to him. "I thought he was perfect. I'll go check on him."

Seth stared at Dean's blood for a few seconds before snapping the door closed. "He _was_ perfect… Give him some time to cool off. He should be okay until then. He left his payment behind anyway, he can get it tomorrow."

* * *

><p>"Ambrose!"<p>

Dean shifted in his sleep, rolling over and hugging his pillow tightly.

"Ambrose!"

He made a non-committal noise, hopeful that the pest would give up and leave him in peace.

The splash of wetness on his face was cold and blunt.

His eyes snapped open, his hands rubbing at them furiously. "What the fuck..?!"

"Oh good, you're awake," Heyman said. He was standing beside Dean's bed wearing a cheap suit and an even cheaper smile. "Now, get up and pay up."

Dean sat up slowly, pushing his now soaked hair away from his face. He took a deep breath and attempted to gather his thoughts. This would be a tricky one. "Mr. Heyman. Good morning."

"I'm not here to exchange pleasantries – give me my money."

Dean nodded and cleared his throat, "I get that. But I've still got some time. I ran into a, uh, some…difficulty last night, but I'll definitely have the cash for you by noon. I just need to go collect it."

"That's a very touching story Mr. Ambrose," Heyman simpered, placing a hand over his heart, "…but it's also irrelevant. It's noon. Now _pay up_."

The bright red numbering of his alarm clock caught Dean's eye. The 12:00 was so foreboding. Shit. How had he slept that long?

"I didn't mean to sleep so late, I had intended to be up early to get the money and have it ready for you," Dean explained, hoping that Heyman could cut him some slack, just this once. "You were very understanding yesterday when you extended the payment deadline, and I'm grateful for that. I just need like another forty five minutes and you'll have it."

Heyman regarded him without emotion. "No."

"No?" Dean looked up at him, startled by the directness of the answer.

"No," Heyman repeated, ripping the covers back. "I have been a very accommodating landlord. I took you in when no one else would, I gave you the best of everything. And how do you repay me? By _not_ repaying me, and wasting my time instead. You're out, Ambrose."

Dean jumped up from the bed, the gravity of the situation suddenly dawning on him. "No, no, please! I'm not messing you around, I got the money last night. I just…left it somewhere. I can go get it right now."

"Not interested," Heyman said dismissively, waving the thought away. "You're done. I am withdrawing my hospitality and terminating your lease as of right…now."

Dean wasn't fond of begging. That's why he did it so rarely. He preferred to take care of everything himself, never to rely on others, thereby avoiding this humiliation.

"Mr. Heyman, _please_. I promise you that I…"

"Brock!" Heyman yelled.

Dean halted mid-plea, his eyes following the direction of Heyman's shout. A beast of a man appeared, eating up all of the space around him. His head was thick and meaty, covered in a blond buzzcut. His shoulders filled the width of the doorway, his ice blue eyes cold and unfeeling.

Dean gulped audibly, knowing that he was beat. He held up his palms in surrender, trying to take the tension in the room down a few notches.

Heyman jerked his head at Dean. Brock took the hint and grabbed Dean by the upper arm, pulling him roughly out into the hallway.

"I'll go quietly!" Dean insisted.

It was only when they reached the open front door that he realised he wasn't wearing any pants. "Wait, wait. I need to go get my clothes."

"We took the liberty of packing up your things while you were sleeping so soundly," Heyman smarmed, pointing to a black trash bag that sat out on the porch.

Dean fumbled through the bag until he found his jeans, hastily tugging them on. He was reaching for a shirt when Heyman picked up the sack.

"Out!"

Dean frowned at him, "I just want to put my clothes on and leave, man."

"I have been generous enough with you…_man_," Heyman spat out. "But my generosity just ran dry. Get off my property."

"Please, just give me a second, I'm trying to preserve my dignity."

Heyman guffawed loudly, slapping Brock's arm as the two shared a wretched smirk. "Dignity, Mr. Ambrose? _Dignity_?"

His volume increased suddenly, causing Dean to glance around. A dozen or so neighbours stood in clusters on either side of the street, watching the scene unfold with rapt interest.

"Dignity?" Heyman repeated, his voice booming through the otherwise quiet afternoon. "I find that rich coming from _you_. A man who cannot even keep his word. A man who cannot organise his life, who cannot manage his personal finances and appreciate the kindness that has been extended to him by upstanding members of this community – myself, namely. I took you in when no one else would, without any references. Do you know who else would accept a strange young man from out of town as a tenant without references? _Nobody_. And _this_ is how you show your gratitude!"

Dean winced as Heyman continued to pontificate loudly from his makeshift altar on the porch. He felt the colour rising in his cheeks, determinedly keeping his eyes focused on the lines of the wood beneath his feet as he hurriedly pulled a black tank top over his head. He didn't want this. He didn't want any part of this. Despite the injustice of the situation, Dean was willing to accept it if they would just let him slip away quietly. But Heyman couldn't even let him have that.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Heyman," Dean said softly, glancing up at the red-faced man. "I'll go, I don't want no trouble here." Heyman's hired goon was eyeing him up and clenching his fists in a very unsettling manner. Dean didn't need to add physical injury to his already fucked up day.

"_You_ are the trouble," Heyman declared, walking purposefully toward him. Dean didn't trust this man, and clumsily grabbed at the black sack, stumbling down the steps as the two continued to advance upon him.

"You show up in a town that you don't have any connection to, without money or even a high school diploma to your name, and think you can walk all over the clean-living citizens of Snow Oaks," Heyman shouted, the showman eager to entertain his public.

Dean's gut twisted, the words hitting too close to the mark, even if they were only partly true. "No. I'm going, I'm going, you don't have to do this." He could feel several pairs of eyes burning into the back of his head, a silent jury ready to condemn him for the crimes that Heyman was accusing him of.

"I gave you a chance, Ambrose. I _wanted_ to believe that you were different…but you're not. You're a screw up, another young man destined for a life full of _nothing_. Well, not nothing…"

Dean felt his back hit the wooden gate and stopped short, raising his head slightly. "What do you mean…nothing?"

"You'll be full of _something_ as you wander aimlessly through this life," Heyman snapped, grabbing Dean's arm and holding it out at full length. He pointed an accusing finger at it, drawing every pair of eyes to the purple bruise that bloomed garishly from where the needle had entered his skin last night.

"_Poison_. Filling that emptiness inside of you because Mommy and Daddy just didn't love little Dean." Heyman thrust out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. "That hollow, cold emptiness that will shadow you, that feeling that you'll never be able to shake. So you avoid it, you'll do anything to escape it. You'll pump foreign chemicals into your body, and decay from the inside out. _Just_ like Mommy and Daddy."

Dean didn't feel anger. Fury didn't rush into his bloodstream. No, it was resignation. And embarrassment. He didn't need his past to be aired publicly. He didn't want these strangers to believe the hateful, _untrue_ words – he was _nothing_ like his parents. At five years old, he had vowed that he would do better, _be_ better. He didn't expect great things for himself, he just knew that he would work at being a decent guy.

"Get out!" Heyman yelled, startling Dean and causing him to jump. He fumbled with the lock on the gate, finally getting it open, feeling his cheeks and the tops of his ears burning hotly. "And don't you dare come back here, you worthless piece of _trash_."

Dean didn't have any words for him, no smart comebacks. Despite his background, and his education on the streets, he couldn't muster up cruel words of retaliation when it counted.

Brock stepped forward and wrenched the trash bag…which now held more significance than before…from his grip and dumped the contents on to the sidewalk unceremoniously. Dean stared at his personal belongings scattered on the ground, stooping down mechanically to retrieve them, trying not to flinch when he heard the two men start to laugh.

He silently cursed his trembling hands as he re-filled the sack, stuffing his feet into his boots when he was finished. He kept his head down and quickly strode away, his right hand rubbing at his eyes.

He wouldn't cry. He _wouldn't._

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><p><strong>AN: Thoughts?**


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